


End of an Empire

by AceDhampir



Category: CMSB
Genre: M/M, World War 2 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-09
Updated: 2015-02-09
Packaged: 2018-03-11 06:20:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3317339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceDhampir/pseuds/AceDhampir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mick Rawson and Ethan Krieg are opposites in war, however when an injured Mick finds himself trapped in a trench with a German, his dying eyes are opened. Time appropriate slurs used.</p>
            </blockquote>





	End of an Empire

1945.

The war is almost over. German is locked in a desperate, final push to expel the forces closing in on them from all sides. Every last man has been called to arms…and child. Among those already engaged in battle is an olive-skinned and battle-weary private, a Flak gunner who has watched his men fall away one by one, time and time again. And by men, it is meant children and those older than him, starved POWs and people who have barely escaped the camps to find service here instead.

  
He understands. He’s one of those, too. Half vietnamese is not a good thing to be in the Third Reich, not when purity is concerned. He’s not GERMAN enough to be out with the mobile units, not GERMAN enough to rise in rank, not GERMAN enough to be of worth…so here he stays, on the edge of a destroyed city with the rest of the mostly non-volunteer Luftwaffe stand-in personnel, watching the smoke rise. He’s lost a lot of hearing, but he doesn’t need much to still hear the drone of bombers that made it past them to the next, weak line of guns, nor the sound of explosions and the sensation of them rumbling the ground.  
German is going to fall. He knows it. It isn’t of consequence to him, but his life is.

"HURRY, FASTER! The tanks are going to be here soon, and our line isn’t going to hold! We have to…"» A crack, and the torso of the man beside him explodes. He jerks back as he’s spattered, wincing. A crack zings by and strikes his helmet, causing trauma to his head and disorientation. It could have easily pierced, but he was lucky with it on the side. His ear is bleeding, his head is hurting, and he’s dizzy. He falls away to his knees and involuntarily dry-heaves, one hand sprawled on the ground before him.

He’s a sniper, for Christ’s sake. He wasn’t made for infantry. 

His feet ache and he can’t feel his heart beat anymore. He’s missing a finger, thankfully not his index or thumb. Frostbite had claimed a toe or two, and he was probably going to go blind in a few years.

“ _Ei fod yn drosodd! Rydym yn ennill hyn!_ " He isn’t feeling like they’re winning. Just last week he watched at least three of his friends die, saw entire armies decimated and brothers slaughter brother. He started to hate what he was doing, hate the wars, hate everything.

His thoughts go instantly to his sister. Suddenly it makes what he’s doing mean something. If anything he can keep Jenna as far away from this as possible. Keep the Germans away from her. 

He’s been sick for the past month, coughing up blood and chunks of lung. His face is covered in gashes and bruises, Mick can’t remember the last time he had a moment to breathe.

The bullet hits him hard in the stomach, and he’s wondering if he even cares. He cries out, knowing full well he would have never been shot if he was where he was supposed to be. He sees the Germans a world away, and with some strain of effort, Mick crawls his way to safety, hiding as blood welled around the wound.

“ _Helpwch fi_!” the cry is a bit too quiet, no one can hear him over the shots. He’s fucked and he knows it, especially with an abdominal wound. No doctor can get to him in time, and well, he was just another Welsher, the English didn’t care about his kind. Hell his own infantry was a fuck up in it’s own self. He hisses when he uses his own gun to try and balance himself on his feel, feeling the metal dig into him as he staggered a few paces forward. If he was gonna die, he was damn well going to do it somewhere quiet.

Ethan forces himself to stand and try to get up again, currently free of severe injury other than a mild concussion. He wanders a few more steps before he feels a hot pop in his arm. This is no movie. The pain is excruciating and the bone has shattered. He gasps in pain and topples down, clawing his way through dirt, blood, and dried grass until he can stand again and topples down the side of a hill, where he rolls flat into a ditch and stays there, stunned. The wounded German shrugs off his helmet, the ringing in his ears not ceasing even after he’s done so. He thought it would. With a groan, he curls up as nausea rocks him again. He dry heaves and shivers, not sure what he’s supposed to do.

There’s a war going on inside him. Doesn’t that take importance over the one outside?

"Oh bollocks."

There’s a bitterness in his voice as he tries to stagger on, just moving away where he can and avoiding as much gunfire as possible. He hears a mix of Welsh and English as soldiers screamed and cried out, and occasional German curses as an explosion goes off, but Mick’s managed to carry himself down to a nook to hide.

Someone would call it cowardice, Mick just knows it’s a way to die with some bit of peace. The pain is excruciating and Mick can’t keep the blood from flowing from his wound. He thinks it’s the worst part is moving, and it gets to where he has to use his rifle as a walking stick. The trench gives him relief as he actually starts to move faster, careful not to fall as he maneuvers himself down, sighing in a shaky breath as he finally allows himself to collapse.

It takes him a full minute to notice the German huddled down adjacent to him. He recognizes the uniform, even if he doesn’t see a face.

"Fuck me," the words are low and in English, he’s not around his fellow Welshmen, no sense in bothering to hide his secrets in a near dead language. He’s sitting in the mud, but it doesn’t seem that he minds the cold. "Bloody shot in me and now I’m dyin’ next to one o’ you bastards. Brilliant."

Ethan barely hears the voice at first, but he forces himself to straighten and scramble to try and grab the pistol at his leg. For someone not bearing a high rank, the fact he has that weapon probably seems…off. He shouldn’t. But more than that, HE is off. He’s not the fair-skinned, light-haired child of the German empire. He’s olive, dark, scared, and a bit thinner than he should be, too. So much for the purity of Germany at this point, although the chances of Mick recognizing his ethnic makeup are next to nil at this era in history.

"Stay back." The English is good- nearly flawless. His raised hand shakes as he attempts to hold his weapon steady, the warning clear. "Stay back or I shoot." Can he even pull the trigger? Shell shock might be a good word for what’s happened to him. He’s disoriented and bleeding, but not too fast.

English? So they weren’t all gung ho perfection. Honestly, German sounded like shit to him. There’s a cough  and a gran before Mick just ignores him, instead he shakes as he digs in his pockets for a cigarette. Nifty things they were, he picked up the habit from an old girlfriend.

"Mate I can barely move. Wot makes you think I’d bother?" another cough before Mick simply presses a hand on the wound. Now he’s getting a good look at his new "companion". Certainally European…mix of something else. Not Aryran, like Mick wasn’t. Than again, the Welsh weren’t known for their light hair and blue eyes. "At least they had something in common. "Dark ‘air and eyes. S’no wonder they left you behind. Pitty, you’ve got more spirit lyin’ there dyin’ than a majority of ‘em fightin’ for somethin’ crazy."

He says it so matter of factly, but he’s finding comfort in conversation. Especially in English.

"Halt den Mund. Ficken Klappe halten." His words are scathing now, the insult taken to heart. He only lowers the weapon when it’s clear Mick can’t move. He can tell the man is dying from the stomach wound, and there’s no reason to waste a bullet he may need for himself on a dying man. The weapon stays at his side, and he shifts to check his serious wound. He swallows dryly and closes his eyes momentarily, trying to breathe. There’s no sound from where he tumbled. His crew is dead, or they’ve run. Both are highly possible. He wants to curl up and die, honestly. He wants to leave it all behind. But…no, he can’t do that. He’s not alone here. He forces his eyes open and stares down the Welshman before him with what intensity he can muster, scared though it is. He’s not unlike a half-starved dog, but he’s got the spirit Mick speaks of tenfold. He’s brave, truly, and he’s not afraid to use his power.

The noise of battle rages on above their current entrenched position. Ethan’s right, uninjured arm moves and he forces the rest of his body to follow. Now situated so that he can attempt to fight back if needed should someone else come tumbling down, he’ll do his best. If he does today, then so be it. Germany is going to fall. He can feel it in his bones. His country has brought him nothing but pain, but…it’s…home.

He’s already weak, makes lighting his cigarette a hassle. He doesn’t care if the man next to him isn’t a smoker, if he’s going to die he’s going to have at least something to keep him calm. He’s always been given shit for his apathy, but then again, he only joined the military for benefits. Qualified for the militiamen before he was yanked out, turns out they don’t like the Welsh standing next to their pretty englishmen. Even when he’d been living in England with his sister, it seemed there was no benifits to what he was. God forbid someone find out they were a quarter Irish.

The insult, as it sounded, gets nothing but a sharp bark. “ _Ti’n llawn cachu_ , two can play at that, mate,” his words lack real bite, though. Here he might be dying next to an enemy, but he’s stopped caring who this man was. He couldn’t kill him even if Mick wanted him to, so there was no sense in being truly rude or now.

"You’re wasting your time. Just like ‘ow I’m jus’ waitin’ for the inevitable. Makes sense they’d put me in the same infantry that left three thousand men to suffer in vain," he’s watching Ethan out of curiosity. This one, he was a fighter. Shame he was on the wrong side. "No one’s comin’ for you. You’re people are gonna jus’ forget about you. Might as well just calm down and wait for the end."

It’s a harsh truth, but someone has to say it.

'm not dying today. YOU might, but I'm not.” It is a promise, a firm and solid one. Ethan is determined, and while his English is heavily-accented he knows it well enough that it isn't a problem to understand his words. He has a few moments of hesitation, of course, but he does what he can to make the phrases flow out of his mouth. “My “people” already forgot about me years ago. They never recognized me at all until this war. That's not what I fear. I'm NOT getting gutted by one of yours.” He's bitter, alright, and it is fairly odd to think that his rank would be what it is given his appearance and age. He's definitely been in the war a while now, but he's kept from advancing. The reason is obvious. He fights with the intensity of a dozen weaker men, though, which makes it a damn shame.

The sound of bombers buzzing in from above gets him to purposely slide further down now, praying quietly none decide to take out this precise spot. He’s seen men die that way and took light shrapnel to his back months ago, or maybe a year. He can’t remember anymore. Getting blown apart that way isn’t in his plans.

Oh, the irony of his name.

"Like the English or the Americans care about you," oh he’s loving this. This guy’s a bloody warrior wasn’t he? "You’re in a bloody trench in the middle of a warzone. I’m surprised your own comrades ‘aven’t gutted you yet. And wounds like that? You’ll cough yourself dead in a few ‘ours. Unless someone ‘as a feeling for the ‘alfling."

Nice way to talk to his new “friend”. Mick coughs, taking a drag before blowing out. “If we’re stuck we might as well start gettin’ friendly. M’ Rawson. 53rd Infantry, Special Forces,” he’s sure he’s going to die, why not just let it all out? “I’m from Swansea.”

He’s been called things like that and worse for so long it doesn’t even sting. He holds his tongue simply because there’s nothing left to say on the matter. Of course, his introduction’s going to get an incredulous look.

"Krieg. Flak-Sturm Regiment 2. Luftwaffe. Obviously." Short and to the point. He glances at his arm, which is a decision he instantly regrets. "From Hamburg. Was." Not so much anymore. Where he’s from more recently is a significantly worse situation. He never ended up in a camp, no, but he found himself stuck in a ghetto for a long time before ending up in this hole in the ground.

His last name…it’s war. That’s a word that everyone knows, these days. Oh, the irony.

"Krieg. Ironic," he snorts, amused that he’s in a hole in the ground with a man by the name of war. "Makes sense I guess."

Mick shifts, getting himself a good look at Krieg. Seems like he’s serious about the war, though he has doubts. Probably good for a man in an army run by a fucked up dictator. Though this guy doesn’t seem like the kind to murder innocents and accept genocide. It makes Mick relax a bit. Last thing he needed was stress when he was already losing too much blood.

"We might be here a while, ‘till one of us dies at least," he sighs, sinking down a bit more and trying to wipe the blood from his stomach on his uniform. "You got a family, Krieg?

Gaunt, dirty, tired, but very much alive. His sharp eyes make his determination clear.  
"I’ve got an uncle. That’s it. Everyone else is dead." It’s the harsh truths of the wartime world- nobody seems to last very long in it. "He got me this post. It used to be quieter, before the push inland." A high RANKING uncle, then. But if his uncle holds that, this was really a pity move to keep the bastard nephew out of a work camp, wasn’t it? He knows that. He knows it well.

"You? Why are you here, dying on our soil? Don’t you have better things to do, sheep to tend to?" He went there. Can you blame him? He’s punching back at the insults fired his way. Ethan glances up as the first shadows of bombers pass. They’re heading towards Berlin. His expression is remarkably hard to read.

"At least…I think my uncle is alive."

He lets the sheep comment go. At least he didn’t accuse him of bestiality like the English do. That would have made him turn completely o this conversation. And well, he’s a asshole. He deserves it. The sound of planes overhead gets him to weakly lift his head up before letting it roll over to look at Krieg.

"I’ve got my sister. Little, only fourteen. Besides that, cause I was told to," the thought of Jenna strikes a nerve, Mick’s not as cool and collected as he makes himself look. "Thought I was protectin’ ‘er, that the war was a chance to save more kids. Mum and dad are dead, she’s got no one besides me. Well, in about an ‘our she’ll be alone. I fucked that up."

Humor is good when you’re almost dead, he’s realized. Though it doesn’t seem to last long. “I ‘ave a tiny island in Britain to serve and protect and I wont even get recognized if I die. Really there’s no point besides the fact that I was told to kill someone ‘cause of something some other wanker decided on doing. War an’ killin’, none of it makes sense or seems worth it when you’re gonna end up dead an’ alone.”

The cigarette drops from his mouth, but he doesn’t bother gathering it from the mud. Talking and bleeding is making him weak. “I wont even get to say goodbye to ‘er. Bloody shame.”

"What’s her name?" He asks not out of real interest but out of carrying a conversation. What else is there to do, sit and die quietly? He isn’t going to let that happen, not on his watch. He doesn’t intend to die today, either. "Your sister. I bet she’s worth protecting." He’s seen a lot of bravery from families in his country during this conflict, but the extent of the harm caused is not known to the world just this yet. When it is discovered, it will be cataclysmic.

"Is she in Swansea still? I don’t know if our…" A moment’s pause. His English is good, but he can’t find the words. "If bombs went there." That works. He winces at the bad use of English, but it will have to work.

Well, not like anyone’s going after her. He’s been secretive about his personal life, but he’s dying. No sense in being more of an asshole. Plus it’s conversation. “Jennette. Goes by Jenna. Smart girl. She’s all that’s left.” 

It’s clear how much he adores her. Probably the reason he was already in his twenties and not married off. He’s more of a father to her instead of a brother, a strange relationship but it makes sense. The comment about bombs makes him shiver, he remembered the amount of fear and worry and tearing himself apart after the news came. He’s damn protective, that’s for sure.

"She’s back in Wales after the bombings," of course he would know. He would have done everything in his power to be sure she was alive and well and ind someway to keep contact. "Some Brit’s been keeping tabs on her. I’m not fond of the English but I trust they’ll protect ‘er like any other little girl. Especially since I wont be able to."

He’s damn sure he’s going to die. Makes sense, he’s lost a lot of blood. “I’m tired anyway. I don’t know ‘ow much longer we’ve got. At least I get a break.”

"You’re so quick to give up. If this war were the other way around you would have fallen already." It’s a jab at Mick’s attitude more than it really is about his country, but Ethan is cornered and feels ok about making the jab. The waves of bombers are still going by and the flak guns are silent now. There’s a rumble on the ground that makes him think tanks are coming closer. Whether they’ll reach their destination or not remains to be seen, but what’s to stop them beyond the two SS battalions? Will they be enough?

"I think…" Voices. GERMAN voices. Krieg freezes, oddly somewhat scared to hear that. He reaches for the knife on his belt and keeps his hand there, waiting as shadows descend and two men slip by. One pauses and looks down, seeing Krieg and Rawson. This is not good. Ethan is clearly wounded, and Mick’s clearly dying. It looks like a fight between the two ended up with this. But lo and behold, Ethan isn’t fighting to the death. The man heads down with gun in hand, aiming at nobody in particular yet.

“ _Was ist das, Halbblut? Sie können den Job nicht zu Ende_?” The soldier sneers despite the trouble around them. “ _Ich werde es für Sie tun. Und setzen Sie aus Ihrem Elend, auch_.” The weapon is raised and aimed at Mick, but what happens next is probably a surprise. Mick can’t understand German, surely, but the sneers at Ethan are likely clear. The flak gunner abruptly springs to his feet, shorter than expected, likely, and powers himself straight into the man, the blade slipping  between his ribs once, ripping out and returning. The gun falls. The blade’s final removal is followed by the officer toppling to his knees and going down, passing out. His kidneys are punctured and he’ll be dead in minutes. Ethan is covered in blood now, his hands and sleeves stained with it. He curses and goes to one knee, useless arm throbbing.

Oh, if Mick knew there was a way to live he’d fight for it. But not when he’s already out about two pints of blood. 

The arrival of the soldiers is no surprise. Mick wasn’t exactly quiet about his escape. And well, blood trails, Mick’s moaning from pain, there were all kinds of possibilities.

Watching Krieg gives makes him curious, wondering if this man was really going to kill one of his own. The second Krieg leaps from the trench, he knows. This guy means business, he’s a damn warrior. It’s…something Mick appreciates. He watches for a moment before finally staggering forward, barely noticed by the other officer since he’s distracted by Krieg. He’s slow but if he times it right…

Ignoring the searing pain he moves forward, Fairbairn–Sykes pulled from it’s sheath as he pushes forward, nearly limping and with an animistic hiss he manages to grab the other man before any harm could be done to Krieg, just tall enough lower his mouth to the other’s ear.

“ _Lladd cachu yn Almaeneg chi,_ " the words are a hiss as he twists the S-F into the ribcage, the sharp knife doing it’s job as Mick ignored the pain in his stomach, groaning as a bit more blood poured out from activity. But it felt damn good, even if he was toppling over as he let the body fall.

"I said I was ready to die," he heaves, too woozy on his feet to really keep his balance while trying to pressurize the wound. "I’m not ready to give up. I like to think there’s difference between the two. I just like to bleed quietly," he shook a bit before he finally let himself fall. It’s strange, if their worlds were different, if their time and place was something else, he thought he’d be honored to fight beside this man. It’s his will, that’s what Mick admires.struggling to sit back up, Mick hissed before grabbing one of the officer’s guns to lit himself back up "You alright, mate?"

Well, he owes this man his life. What’s left of it, at least.

"Perfectly fine." Ethan’s words are a snarl, truly, and he makes his discomfort clear as day. "I don’t want to stay in a hole with two dead bodies." The statement is hollow and requires no action. He can’t go anywhere, anyway. Not only that, he’ll be killed for what he’s done if it’s discovered…and if the Germans hold ground today, it likely will.

He’s not done here. He’ll surrender if he has to, even though that’s going to go poorly for him. Mick would know it, and also be aware it will probably end with him shot in the head. Worse, maybe with both knees shot out and left to die back in this same pit. He’s not giving up, though, and he’ll claw his way out of whatever he has to, so long as there’s strength in his body to move.

"Your sister. Maybe I can find her, after all this shit is done. If I make it I could. I could tell her something for you, maybe give her something. What have you got to lose? If you’re resigned to dying today and I’m not it is your best chance." He has a point.

"I’m not resigned…" the admission is quiet. "I’m in the middle of nowhere with a bullet hole in my stomach. Call me crazy but unless I get any kind of medical attention, I’m not going to make it. I’ve lost a lot of blood and I can barely stand. I’ve accepted it."

That’s just how he is. Gets the news his parents are dead? Accepts it. Has to quit school and raise his sister? Accepts it. Dies in the middle of Germany? Accepts it. 

"You’d…" wait…he’s considering that? Oh yeah, that’s great. Suddenly a German soldier shows up and tells a fourteen year old girl her brother’s dead. Brilliant. Subject change. "We should move. The bodies will attract attention and I rather ‘ave my own grave to fall in. Can you stand?"

"Can YOU stand?" His question is sharp and snappish. He’s up and moving in a short period of time, although stiffly. "I can’t be seen walking with you. I…" And it’s then he realizes there’s probably nobody to see them, anyway. "We’re…probably going to be alone soon, aren’t we? Move north, that direction." He points. "Away from the base, over towards the treeline. There are definitely other troops hiding in there so stay down. You first, or me?" He’s going to watch Mick’s back, it seems. Why, though? What reason does he have? He’s got a whole war he could fight, but he seems to know it’s already lost. That attitude can’t be appreciated. 

“‘M losin’ blood, but I can walk,” can he? Quit lying out your ass, Mick. “I’m slow. I guess I should lead. If you wait I’ll jus’ slow you down.”

Mick’s openly turning his back to this man. That shows a lot of trust. His enemy, the man he’s supposed to kill. He doesn’t make it too far, he’s just using the gun as a walking stick and trying to keep himself from bleeding everywhere. The pain hurts and Mick’s starting to lose it. 

The problem with stomach wounds, they bleed slowly but they’re still a bitch and a half. He gives himself a few staggering steps when they’re about a hundred meters out before he’s too damn weak and falls, barely catching himself before hurting himself far worse. His body is probably in shock, not only from the wound but also from the terrible shape he’s in. Krieg probably doesn’t know he was fucked up before he was shot anyway. He isn’t just thin or fun 

A single, strong arm pulls Mick back up and yanks him down into a foxhole, where the rumble of what happens above is a bit quieter. This is as far as they’re going to make it, and he can tell that. There isn’t very much room here, and the two of them are forced to be a bit closer. With somewhat shaky hands, Krieg gets a rag from a pocket and ties it around his arm in a weak attempt to at least slow the bloodflow. He thinks he’s going to make it, and he likely will. From the way things just went down, though, he can’t go back to his own side, at least not right now.

When in his pocket, though, his hand brushed tinfoil of some kind. He pauses in thought before he reaches back to pull out the last few chunks of…a CHOCOLATE bar?

How the hell did he get that? Such a rare commodity, too, even in the rest of Europe. He splits it in two and offers one half to Mick in a gesture of good will.

He’s thankul there’s a spot to hide for a bit

"I don’t-" what the fuck?  _I can’t eat that. It’s too sweet and it’ll make me sick_. Instead of declining he takes it, realizing that he’s going to die anyway, what does it matter? He accepts, muttering a thank you and not even bothering to pick at it yet.

At last with a moment to rest, he coughs a moment before shoving his hand in his pocket, managing to get out his wallet and leaned back, trying to get as comfortable as he could before clearing his throat.

"You asked about my sister," he said, maneuvering fingers to pull out a burn photograph. This was our mum’s favorite she ‘ad. Jenna’d stuck it with my uniform before I left," he offers it to Krieg, losing his protective edge and showing how completely vulnerable he is. The photograph is simple, just a poorly lit home portrait, black and white and withered and put on cheap film. There were scratch marks on the gloss and bloody fingerprints covered the sides, a stain on what seemed to be on Mick’s face as he was crowded down with a smaller girl. Ironic, probably. But there’s a reason he’s kept it. 

Ethan accepts it gently to look, crewing a small bite of the chocolate like the delicacy it is. He studies the photograph in silence for a moment before he passes it back over to Mick. “I hope she’s well.” An awkward phrasing, but it is heartfelt never the less. “I’m sorry it came to this. I didn’t have the power to stop any of this. Never, not even once.” But here he is, sitting in a foxhole with the enemy, wearing the swastika and bleeding for a mad leader who wouldn’t even look him in the eye at the end of the day. He would have had better luck if he had been posted to North Africa, or maybe even overseas. The Japanese would detest him even more than his own people, but maybe he could find SOME way to…

Oh, it’s just wistful thinking. He lets it die off.

"Having a sibling is a foreign concept to me. I can’t imagine."

"It’s strange. She was jus’ supposed to be my sister. Now she’s like my kid. But after this she’s alone again. Probably good for her, I’m a bad influence," the joke is terrible but Mick lets himself laugh at it. He might be a little delirious. He picks at the chocolate he’s given, even taking a small bite before giving up on trying to even eat it. 

Krieg’s apology gets a sad nod as Mick tucks the photo back in his wallet. 

"S’not your fault," an Ally saying that? To someone like Krieg? "Your dictator, ‘e’s to blame. This war’s all about power ‘ungry assholes with little to know care for the people they represent while people get tortured and murdered for being diff’rent," a much different attitude than he had before. Maybe this guy was giving him a different view. "Wot can be said for my side? A week ago we let that bomb drop…Guess I’m jus’ at that ‘this war is fucking bollocks and I hate everyone involved’ point in dying. But it’s war. You do what your told or you get killed. Maybe once it’s over we’ll learn and fucking stop for once."

He’s bitter. Makes sense. He was told he would be a hero, that even Englishmen would look at him with admiration and here he was, bleeding in a hole. He hated it. 

He winces and lets his dark gaze drop for a moment before he speaks. It’s a quiet and sad thing, but it’s honest.

"It’s never going to stop. Long past we’re dead, there will still be plenty of wars. Every generation has to learn for themselves, wants to dirty their hands. Like it’s their…red badge of courage?" He attempts the reference, but Mick isn’t even American. Oops. "I…thought I was lucky at first. I should have been…" He pauses. Is there any need to go there? Well, Mick is dying, anyway.

"I’ve seen the camps. You know about them. But I’ve seen them." As if suddenly chilled, he shifts his position uncomfortably. "They’re…"

It’s truth that Mick doesn’t know what they’re like. He doesn’t want to know. But he catches on.

"I’m sorry," there’s a sadness there now. He understands why Krieg’s chosen to fight. He’s kinda had to. "No one deserves that. Never. Jewish or queer or…or whatever you are. Must’ve been rough. Probably worse than dying," Mick’s on the verge of passing out, but he’s fighting it. He feels warm, probably fever, but with the pain it’s a welcome sensation.

"I was never in one. Anybody who goes in one doesn’t come out unless they’re a body, or some form of what used to be one." There. The hammer drops. "When this war is over and your cameras go there…everything is going to change. And I fear it. I fear it, but we need that help." He sits and draws his knees closer to himself, good arm draped loosely around them. "My father was in the Kriegsmarine. My mother was…a child, virtually a child. He took her with him from Vietnam like some kind of trophy, I suppose. Then I happened.” He shakes his head and takes a bite of resignation to finish off his chunk of chocolate. “He didn’t make her have an abortion, but she died in childbirth. I don’t even know the language, the culture, the customs…nothing. But I’m only half German. So he’s disgraced. He’s demoted, shoved to some…office post. And I’m raised, and the world crumbles around us after the Great War, and we only were kept fed because he was of military importance. Then Hitler came. The SS came. My uncle warned my father that I was going to destroy him, and that he should just…turn me over. Just let me disappear with all the Jews, and all the Gypsies, and all the political enemies and all the queers, and…my father said no, not yet. I still need my son. He did, alright. To find him dead in his chair with a hole through his head and a note.”

He pauses, tracing a pattern in the dirt with the index finger of his injured arm.

"My uncle didn’t stop them from carting me off to a ghetto. I survived. I always survive. But then they needed more men. And because of my uncle, they passed my papers over and I didn’t get sent to a camp. My uncle, he’s…some important officer. Of a camp. He told me if I ever got arrested he’d stick me in there. Told me I was a halbblut bastard and I should be already." He pauses. "And then when he came to get me out of the ghetto I was in. And he…" Hesitation. But the man before him is dying, so why does it matter? He’s told nobody, and it’s the only reason he’s still alive and whole, probably.

"There was someone I loved, dearly. We protected each other for that time. But one day my uncle’s men came like usual to cart more to the camps. And they took him."

…Oh.

Oh, God.

"So I held my tongue and I put on my uniform and now I’m bleeding in a hole. I let them kill him."

Mick listens, thankfully his interest keeps him awake, as morbid as that sounds. Throughout Krieg’s explanation he’s quiet, breathing a wheeze. But he keeps his eyes on Ethan, gaze the only thing about the Welshman not faltering. 

"I’m sorry," that’s a stark contrast to the reasons he’s given by commanders and other soldiers as to why the Germans are doing this. It’s not the most kosher reason, but it’s made Mick think. "That’s a lot to…to go through. A lot to suffer from," he adjusted, hissing when he moved too far and stretched out the wound. It’s ridiculous what he’s been through, if Mick hadn’t seen this war first hand he wouldn’t have believed him. "Jesus Christ."

He’s horrified. But he doesn’t pity this man, just sympathizes with him. Maybe his story isn’t the same, but it’s lead them both here.

"My birth wasn’t my fault. The…other bit was. They say it’s wrong. Everybody says it’s wrong. So…so I guess it is. And I guess I should have ended up there too, for that. But here I am. So…I’m not dying today. If I didn’t die then, I won’t die now." And with that comes a solemn promise he intends to keep, even if it isn’t worded that way. A mission statement, perhaps, is a better choice of words.

"I’m just a worthless, dirty man who only escaped immediate death because my uncle has power. And there is…NOTHING…for me. Anywhere. So I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing, besides fighting. Fighting, fighting, fighting." He sounds as exhausted as he looks, really. He’s been talking to keep Mick with him, but he can tell the other man is slipping.

"Would you…let me find your sister for you?…"

Mick’s barely hanging on. It’s a relief that Krieg’s paying attention, he wont be able to fuck around much longer.

"If you make it. You probably will, you’re strong," he manages, smirking before going off in a it of coughing. "I’m tired. If I sleep it might ‘urt less. Does death ‘urt? Silly questions," he’s rambling, trying to keep himself going long enough to get what he needs out. "She’s in Swansea, living with our mum’s mum. Nan’ll lose ‘er ‘ead seein’ someone like you show up but ah…take the picture. She’ll look older but it’s worth the try. Try not to make me sound pathetic, eh?"

Seems like that’s enough. Until Mick thinks of something else. Always last minute with this one.

"Krieg? Have these," it takes a lot of strength just for him to maneuver to yank of his id tags that hung on weak, rotten string before he just weakly hands them to Ethan. "Give ‘em to my sister if ya want. Or keep ‘em, they’re no use to me. I don’t want ‘em on my body and if I could get something to be remembered by, then bleeding in a damn hole wont be worth nothing."

There’s another cough before he exhales, making sure he’s damn comfortable before he stops the pressure. “Thanks, by the way. Would’ve been a bother to die alone Talkin’ to m’self.”

He’s wanting to see Ethan off before he dies, like he wants some sort of success to be the last thing he sees. Sleep sounds so good right now.

Ethan accepts the picture, tucking it neatly in the inside of his uniform’s coat. He’s about to pull back when the ID is offered. He accepts it and nods solemnly, putting it in the same place as the picture.

"When this is over, I’ll find her. When they let me go. They’ll probably try me first, but when I’m free again I’ll go find her as fast as they’ll let me into your country…or faster, if I can get creative." He isn’t going to shrink from his duties, either, and it will be several months before he can even get close. He knows that much.

"Thank you. Despite what you’re a part of, you’re a good man.  _Heddwch a chariad i chi_ , Krieg,” he’s sincere, but he doesn’t say more. Really he can’t, because he’s letting go. It’s a pleasant feeling, he can’t feel the wound anymore and he doesn’t know if there’s more blood. He can’t feel his fingers but he feels warm and honestly he can’t decide which he likes more.

There’s a split second he dreams, resting against dirt and rock, a forgotten member of the 53rd Infantry, British Special Forces officer Mick Rawson is gone.

Ethan Krieg didn’t die that day. He didn’t die the next, either, or the next week, or month. He saw Russians invade Berlin and he watched it fall. It was that very day he ended up on his knees with his hands behind his head in a line of men before a wall…a wall already chipped with flecks taken out from bullets, and blood. They didn’t hood their prisoners before execution, leaving them to stare down their fate. Someone’s crying. The man next to him is jittery and can barely stay still. He’s staring at a piece of someone’s skull absently, almost as if trying to envision its owner.

Fingers thread through his hair and he’s yanked up, causing an involuntary curse of pain. Words are exchanged and a jeer is to be had as he’s yanked out of line.

"Он Люфтваффе. Арестуй его." And with that, he’s carted away as gunshots and screams of pain, followed by sobs and more shots echo behind him. He feels sick.

The Russians will work him to death if they don’t do that in questioning…but his luck isn’t over yet. Americans, before them. He’s struggling to keep up from the painful position they have him in, an arm twisted behind his back and hair  being yanked even when he cooperates. He’s tired, thin, and desperate at this point. But who would take pity on a German after Berlin’s fall?   
Apparently someone…but they have their own reason.

The American GI is not Caucasian. He’s not mixed, either, and it takes all of a second to recognize his kinship with Ethan and put two and two together regarding how this war must have gone for him. Incredulous about how he could have possibly ended up in uniform but not willing to watch him die without answers, his release is negotiated with an exchange of cigarettes and a chocolate bar. He’s shoved to the ground as the two Russians walk away, about to dry heave again, at the feet of his rescuer.

The soft words of English don’t make sense to him right now, but he accepts the hand and the help up before he’s escorted away. His life was saved in that very moment.

——

1947\. Years have passed since the war. A quiet German takes a train, sitting alone. His gait is somewhat stiff when he moves, one arm not moving quite like it should. He’s on his way to Swansea.


End file.
